


Hair Today, Shorn Tomorrow

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson needs a haircut.  Holmes offers to assist.  How bad could it be?  Oh dear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hair Today, Shorn Tomorrow

“Holmes! You will never believe it,” I exclaimed, dejectedly flinging my hat upon its hook and tossing my coat upon a chair, where it landed in a mussed jumble. I stood in the middle of the sitting-room at 221B, and eyed my friend who was, upon that very moment, sitting at our table by the window inspecting something minute and evidently unfathomable with his magnifying lens and tweezers.

“I am sure that I will not,” said he, looking up at me with one raised eyebrow, “but I suppose that I must hazard a guess. Has Mrs. Hudson burned the potatoes again? Although I cannot detect any acrid aroma. Perhaps Inspector Gregson now lies in a catatonic heap at the foot of our stairs, having made an abortive and entirely failed attempt at climbing them without losing all of his breath? Perhaps -”

“Holmes,” I interrupted, “it is far worse than either of those things! Taylor has closed his doors!”

Holmes blinked slowly, then shook his head and returned to his tweezer work. “Is that all?” he drawled lazily, “I thought that it was something _important_.”

“But it is!” I expostulated, irritated. “Taylor is the only competent barber within walking distance, and I have visited him fortnightly for the past five years, as you are quite well aware. And now he has shut up shop, emptied his premises, and all without a word of warning, and Holmes, what on earth am I to do now?”

My friend sighed. “Find another barber?” he suggested, unhelpfully. “Lanyard’s is but a few minutes away by hansom, he would do you very well.”

“No, he would not,” I snapped, flinging myself down into my armchair and snapping open the morning newspaper. “He has not the faintest idea as to what to do with my hair or my moustache without butchering either of them beyond salvation. I shall not go to him again.”

“Smith & Curtin are five minutes in the opposite direction. Ringer’s is ten minutes away. Larcher’s is seven minutes East, if you don’t object to a long stretch of rough potholing in the road en route.”

“Pif, paf, pof,” I said, unintentionally spraying the newspaper in my unfettered disgust. “They are all abysmal, and Ringer’s rates are extortionate. I would sooner let Mrs. Hudson loose on my head with a pair of pinking shears.”

“I am quite certain that you would not,” Holmes replied. “Watson, you are being a bear. And a bear with impossibly high standards where the subject of barbers is concerned. Your hair should take but a moment to trim; it is scarcely an unkempt forest, now, is it? Similarly, your moustache does not stretch down to your kneecaps; I do not see either the problem or the reason for your paranoia. I have nail scissors. _I_ will trim your hair, if you will allow it -- if only to cease your infernal bleating.”

“Have you ever done such a thing before?” I grumbled, peering over the top of my newspaper. Holmes shrugged, gesticulating vaguely with his tweezers.

“I have experience with tools of various sizes and descriptions,” said he, “and consider myself to be adept with all of them. Nail scissors are a tool. It stands to reason that I should be adept with those also. I shall try my hardest not to stab one of your main arteries, Watson, please believe me.”

“Well, I should hope so,” I said, alarmed, “for I have not the equipment here to carry out any emergency transfusion. Very well, then, Holmes, if you are feeling confident. You could not be any worse than Lanyard. I require only the smallest of trims, my dear fellow.”

Holmes stood and crossed the room, to vanish briefly into his bedroom whereupon he emerged holding a small pair of scissors, which he brandished experimentally at me. He placed an upright chair upon the centre of the hearth rug and motioned that I should sit myself down upon it. I did so with an iota of trepidation. I wondered, suddenly, whether a visit to Ringer’s might not be more in order after all. I smoothed my hair down, tested its length, and debated to myself how much I might allow my dear friend to snip away. Holmes was laying old news sheets on the floor around me. He straightened up and smiled confidently.

“There,” said he, with an airborne _snip_ of the nail scissors, “we are ready to begin, I think. Watson, do not grimace, you are quite safe in my hands.”

“Please, Holmes, remember,” I said, raising a finger, “only a fraction of an inch, nothing more.”

“Of course, of course,” he replied impatiently, “I know what I am doing. I have watched my own barber in the mirror upon numerous occasions. Then again, you do not happen to favour _my_ barber, but that is of little significance. Do not wriggle, Watson! Be still, man. Now, then.”

My friend commenced to execute the tiniest of snips at my left temple. I executed but the merest of flinches away from him. He tutted, and held my head firmly with his free hand. _Snip. Snip._ From the corner of one eye I could spy detached wisps floating down from my head onto the thoughtful news sheet. Holmes hummed as he worked. He negotiated around my left ear quite nicely, and I began to relax, finally, and to settle back into the rhythmic sound of the softly rasping scissors. Holmes paused when he reached the nape of my neck, seemingly to consider the best method of a straight line, and then made up his mind and continued along his way. Another pause.

“Everything all right back there?” I enquired, opening one eye, rather wishing that I had one on an antennae, as an insect, that I might reach it back behind me to inspect the progress made thus far.

Holmes muttered a word beneath his breath which I could not catch.

“What was that, my dear fellow? I did not quite hear you.”

“Bollocks,” said Holmes. “Watson, I do appear to have made a bit of a hash of the back of your head. I sincerely apologise.”

“What have you done?” I attempted to twist around in mild panic, but Holmes’s grasp was firm upon me.

“Do not move,” he instructed, “and for the love of God, stop _wriggling_. I cannot stop now, otherwise one side of your head will be quite to the detriment of the other. I must carry on. I am sure it will turn out for the best.”

“Holmes, _what have you done to me?_ ” I craned my neck as best I might to look at the floor. More wisps and tufts than I felt strictly comfortable with were dotted around at my feet. But I could not flee, for Holmes had arrived at my right ear, and was snipping away as though his life might depend upon it. He was humming no more. The tension was palpable.

“Holmes, if you draw blood, then I shall knock you into the fireplace,” I said severely. He attempted a laugh, but it was shrill and breathless and full of bleak warning.

“Patience, my boy, patience,” said he, slowing his pace all the same. “I am almost there. Oops. No, Watson, don’t struggle, it was nothing, here we are now…”

Ten interminable seconds later, and Holmes drew the nail scissors away from me with a flourish. He cast an apprehensive eye around the circuit of my head. He backed away.

My hands flew immediately to my hair. I tapped around my temples, dabbed behind my ears, and patted at the back. And patted some more. I sensed a discrepancy. My fingers flew around my hairline in disbelief.

“Holmes,” I said, quietly, “I appear to have no hair in this patch here.” I pointed blindly. “Nor here.” I pointed again. “And this area _here_ feels very sparse also. Could you pass me a mirror?”

“No,” Holmes replied, “I have no mirrors.” He looked sideways at me.

“We do have mirrors,” I said, calmly. “Please fetch one for me.”

“I would really rather not,” said he.

“Fine,” I said, my voice raised, “then I shall fetch one for myself.”

I stamped from the sitting-room and made my way up the stairs to my bedroom to procure the hand mirror from my bedside table. Holding it at an angle to the back of my head, I squinted into the larger table-top mirror upon my dresser. If Holmes heard my agonised howl, then he did not deign to enquire as to its cause, for of course he knew very well.

I thundered back down the stairs to fling the sitting-room door open wide. Holmes was standing by the sofa; he jumped back a little as I entered the room.

“Watson -” he began. I cut him off.

“Not a word,” I said. “Not one damned word out of you.”

I took my bowler hat down from its hook, and smacked it onto my head. I picked up my coat, and folded it over my arm.

“I am going to call upon Smith & Curtin,” I said, “in the hope that they might in some way repair the damage which you have wrought upon me.”

“The barber’s art is more complicated than I had at first thought,” said Holmes, by way of futile explanation. “I was thinking that perhaps next time I should try a larger pair of scissors?”

“And hell will freeze over before you do so!” I spluttered, trying my best not to laugh now, but unable to keep from chuckling, for so forlorn and regretful was my friend’s expression. “A great detective you may be, Holmes, but a talented barber you most certainly are not. I cannot imagine why I allowed you near my head in the first place.”

Holmes brightened at my laughter. “Blind faith, my dear fellow,” said he. “But practice makes perfect, and it was surely a better end result than Mrs. Hudson and her pinking shears? Yes, I do think so. Ow! Watson!”

It would appear that I was no better aim with my morning newspaper than Holmes was with his nail scissors, although it rebounded from his chin satisfactorily enough. I headed downstairs and outside to flag a hansom for my trip to Smith & Curtin. The sun shone weakly through the clouds. I adjusted my bowler.


End file.
